


sink me in the river at dawn

by bbb136, Bidawee, fairysquadmother, gravityinglass, honeypottrap



Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: Additional Warnings In Author's Note, Art, Drowning, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, M/M, Minor Violence, Non-Consensual Drug Use, Remix, Virgin Sacrifice
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-19
Updated: 2018-07-19
Packaged: 2019-06-12 17:43:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 5
Words: 9,995
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15345114
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bbb136/pseuds/bbb136, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bidawee/pseuds/Bidawee, https://archiveofourown.org/users/fairysquadmother/pseuds/fairysquadmother, https://archiveofourown.org/users/gravityinglass/pseuds/gravityinglass, https://archiveofourown.org/users/honeypottrap/pseuds/honeypottrap
Summary: The river demands a sacrifice.(or, the story of sacrifice mitch and river monster auston, as written by five different authors.)





	1. iphigenia

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> >warnings for manipulation, abduction, implied non consensual sexual content, offscreen death, non consensual drugging

An old folktale of the village speaks of a weeping boy, who sits on the sandy shores and cries. The wife of the river spirit, or river monster, depending on the texts read. A boy scorned and so full of agony that he ripped his own flesh and blood from the earth and choked them with the weight of the water, pushing them under until the algae choked out the sunlight and they were victim to the coontails growing on the lakebed.

Spinsters say his voice is hoarse because of the salt water ingested when he yelled. They say he never stopped trying to call for help, even when his fate was cemented in the brine lake’s belly. For the people that uncovered the remains of what was once human and virgin, their findings would haunt them.

They detail how he crawled to shore after his coupling, hacking up thick black lungfuls of water as the monster patrolled close by, chittering. His ceremonial shift was plastered to his skin and ripped along the abdomen, nearly peach with how it stuck to the boy and defined his shape. Pinpricks of blood spotted the quivering thighs.

When they tried to approach, he wailed and the waters pulsed over the rock shield and snaked in the direction of their feet, trying to drag the witnesses with him into the cold, sunken depths. They only got away because they kept their distance, the others, not so lucky as their curiosity sank them, lacking any mercy. The boy was committed to purging those who wronged him, starting with his own family.

The circumstances leading up to the horrible tragedy was yet another tragedy in different paint, a starving population that lived by a thickening river lamenting how their corn and strawberries were drowned by the saltwater congregating in the roots. The water soared higher, the skies opening up and crying, until there was no doubt that it was the work of the supernatural.

Holding an audience with their terrifying monster never guaranteed answers. It could lust for things of material value or a show of loyalty that involved slaughtering their livestock. Whatever they could do to appease him, they did. Their devotion ran in their genetics. But there must have been something else, something missing, because after two weeks of flooding and death, nothing had changed,

At the head of the committees and congregations sat the pastor and his wife and two children, who prayed in circles for hours to end the misfortune and bring new life with the coming of spring. Their daily sessions on the docks and marshland of the territory were what sparked the original controversy of the weeping boy.

Their youngest, fair and cheerful, gained attention from many suitors both male and female. Although small, he was built enough to work the fields and had a contagious laugh his friends mocked in a loving manner. He was not dainty, but still fitted with long lashes and a natural glow that was almost irresistible.

He had another admirer, but not of the earth and sculpted of flesh. The same monster that wreaked havoc and called the rains down on people watched from the riverbank with trepidation for the boy with mocha-coloured hair to sit on the bank and whistle to himself. The creature loved the songs he sang to himself that it hoped were for the river and swamplands too. In return, the waters were always plentiful when the boy fished and cold for him when he complained of the heat. Every time the boy disposed of his daisy chains and necklaces, the water surged out to catch them.

The lake and by extension the monster inside of it saw time passing as the boy developed, his lithe body growing into something more substantial, filling out. Others began to notice, talk began to occur and roses replaced the daisies on the boy’s doorstep. They were as thorned as the creature’s bitterness, knowing that it could not compete with those of complete human shape and without scales.

Patience wearing thin, the waters churned and spat, and action was prompted.

First thing’s first, the patch of roses the suitor planted was drowned.

Slowly but surely, daisies began to wash up on shore, perched on top of the seafoam and weeds that tangled about, making impromptu crowns nesting in patches of bubbles. They checkered the shoreline and sandy beaches like poppies on a battlefield, erosion unable to deter their growth. However beautiful, the elders looked at them with disdain and plucked the few closest the village well to read in their palms.

It was the ox-eye daisy, criminally beautiful, the size of an ear and with the acclaim of fool’s gold. Always containing virtue, a symbol of virginity and daintiness. Some say virgins would braid their hair with daisies on their wedding night, believing it would bring them fertility. For the elders, the etched meanings did not fall on deaf ears.

So the sacrificial animals and artifacts could do no good; their monster desired something far more lecherous. And in their establishment of young and old, little compared to the lustre of the chapel and the family inside of it, particularly their son who’d come of age. Always dressed in white, it was unlike him to not walk the river in the morning and skirt around the wildlife.

They interrogated his friends, as carefree as he was, and through pressed tears and wet coughs were able to find the boy’s favourite flowers were daisies. They learned that he would weave them with hay and create little crowns to wear with pride, leading the children like a piper through the moor and the heather. When the tide came gushing the next foggy morning, and more daisies formed a semi-circle around their doormats and crucifixes, the decision was obvious.

For a day or so, they shadowed the children in hopes of finding something distinct to use to convince the child’s patrons, the blessed mother and father, to give up their child for the good of the congregation.

They discovered that the children liked to walk the river and the corresponding lake, chasing the minnows and tadpoles for leisure when they weren’t working the fields; rare when the harvest and planting process was in tatters. The boy in question got stuck only minutes after entering. Around the bend with the lily pads and weeds, mud sucked the man's feet under and wouldn’t let him leave, almost begging him to stay. The other children tugged on his hands as much they could, but nothing worked. He was rooted.

They had to fetch his parents from their sermon, in which they took note of their boy still frozen in place, water pooling around his upper thighs and cradling him steady. A horrible, almost unbelievable idea came to fruition. One that was unspeakable among most parents; though their consciences were long since bleached of moral principles.

Mother and father argued for a long afternoon, debating against maternal instincts and common sense. In any society, a mother’s love for her child is thought to be sacred. With this, that most universal of instincts was called into question.

Should the monster desire their son, then they would spare the village in the hopes that the needs of the many outweigh the needs of the few. He was the child they bathed, nursed, changed, and by dusk they were discussing how to broach the news that he would be their sacrifice. For the greater good.

The only opposition they faced was in the form of their son, and that was a given. They violated his trust and perpetuated a hoax belief, according to him. Death was out of the question. He would not be the sacrificial maiden. Yet, despite the lack of consent, he was only guaranteed a single night of rest before the elders knocked on the door and demanded his presence.

Witnesses said he was seen at town hall that morning. Knowing he was on edge, they assured him it was unrelated to the sacrificial process. That it was for the congregation, for a sermon he’d participate in, and, naive as he was, he went. Once at town hall, they filled the room with attendants and fetched the finest clothes a spinstress could make on command. Long bloomers, a loose shift spun from cotton as undergarments, a wrap brooch made of copper wire, and alas, a knotted choker to hold his neck still.

All garments were white, as white as could be. A symbol of purity and virtue much like the daisies. They recited verses and chants sacred to their people as the room drained of its warm bodies leaving only the higher practitioners to keep him company. Still spinning fraudulent lies, they put on their doll faces as the people outside mounted the pole, preparing the ropes to bind their captive to his fate.

Many outsiders question how they transported him there--if he knew--when he walked outside and saw his waterlogged grave. Given how small he was, many hands could make light work of him, taking him snarling and dragging through the mud, one person hiking up his skirts and robes to keep them clean like he was. If so, he would’ve been sobbing, tear marks taking the kohl down the apple of his cheeks in stark, neat little lines. The friends and family he grew up with, believed in, all working with the common goal of yanking his arms back and tethering him.

But there was no hiding that the truth was something much more sinister. The joy plant, opium poppy, which bloomed in crimson ruffles as a direct result of the dry, warm climate they’d been exposed to over the few weeks of drought made for a perfect tranquillizer. The sap removed from the poppy flower and commonly used for hexing rituals. Only slightly refined, it resembled more a form of morphine than a drug, but the vial was potent nonetheless. They had many a past victim to attest to that.

With only a small quantity, they’d had to make the best of it, which meant hooking their fingers into his mouth and pulling his teeth back until they could drip it down the back of his throat. His capture and subsequent defeat was a sluggish haze down to the water’s edge where the monster waited for its bride with relentless growls.

Only the members with the strongest stomachs shouldered the weight of watching the boy strung up. He was shrieking for bloody mercy.

They rimmed his eyes with kohl to bring out the white of his sclera, ashes and soot thick in smell and consistency. For his skin, they smeared olive oil on the forehead and rose petals to line the rouge on his cheeks, old cosmetics that reeked like ground up herbs and crushed alum. Throughout the endeavour the boy pleaded, protest against the daisies weaved in his hair and the many hands petting his skin.

Suspicion was piqued; their God was never the merciless sort. Should he have garnered the taste for human blood, the question became should more of them fall. Would they be picked off like the sickly members of a herd until complete elimination, experiencing flash flooding and droughts in their finals months? More questions remained, but time was of the essence. The full moon was rising, the wake of whitecaps paving the way for their God to split the waters and claim his prize.

The ropes would have constricted the blood flow, looping three times around his torso with a separate piece keeping his hands together. He was submerged up to his thighs, because the water level imprinted on the pole was no higher than his waist, and left to hang.

Traditionally, cults would burn incense, sing, and dance when they lowered gutted cattle and chickens with broken legs into the water to be used as offerings. It was, like many traditional holidays, a celebration of their similarities and differences, and hope for the future. Hope that their offering would bode well to enchant their lands and protect them from predators of both the four and two-legged kind.

When the drums were hit and the people howled, the boy was essentially hearing the village celebrate his demise. Some in their hearts believed they were sending him off the only way they knew how, with the same cultural lullabies and nursery rhymes they’d lulled him to sleep with. Whether it was a distress or a comfort, only the weeping one would know, and the people could speculate, because the waves began to grow in height, the winds fierce as the sun dipped behind cloud cover and eventually, the horizon line.

Even the wisest of elders left when the moon’s foreboding glare licked the water’s surface. Some would call them cowardly, because they not only left one of their own to die, but they left him alone too. Other historians and prophets declared it was too dangerous, that these things solemnly were documented. Privacy was granted to their God at any cost.

Once alone, the water began to swell and thicken in salt, the same salt that dried out their crops and burned their eyes. From the boy’s thighs, it rose up to his waist, the cover granting their God more to work with. Hands traced up the legs, thighs, abdomen. Surveying and scrutinizing what it was given. The boy’s chin lifted, nostrils flaring for oxygen as he was slammed with water from every angle, eventually freed when the ropes were sliced by the creature’s talons. The quagmire underfoot worked with their owner to wrench the boy and tug him along until they were in the monster’s territory where he could finally work.

 _It_ became a _he_. Large, gilled, with slanted eyes brimming with interest, outstretching to rake down the wooden pole and pin the boy to it. Webbed hands tilted the boy’s chin down, getting a closer look at his newest possession with thickly veiled interest. He claimed a nip on the boy’s lips before the curved nails shredded flakes of wood and the hemp material from the ropes. The boy could only manage a terrified whimper before the last of the water overwhelmed him and he got a mouthful of salt and algae.

Out of his element, it was a terrifying ordeal. Whether taking the boy’s virginity was the reason for God’s choice or simply a requirement; carnal or spiritual, he suffered the same. The murky water blinded him when the salt did not, the layers upon layers of fabric heavy with the weight of the water absorbed acting as an anchor.

He could peddle towards the surface with all his strength, but the monster would make chase and pull him away from the moon’s reflection before he could adequately breathe. The only oxygen he’d receive would be in random intervals throughout the copulation, when the monster felt enough pity to swallow the boy’s cries and feed him air.

There, captive to the water and the beast that resided in it, the boy changed.

Evidently, because the boy washed on shore, he was not killed in the material sense. His jugular was not cut, nails dirtied and soft from the water, but intact. His friends, the same ones he’d pranced with, told their parents he sulked with a mouthful of dirt. Black mud caked his thighs and legs, twigs caught in his hair. Not injured, but tousled and used.

There was no mistaken something had snapped, that the boy from the village was no more. Even without the demonic appearance of kohl slick down his face like slime, he was misshapen in both mind and body. When he quivered the waves followed suite as if his own. His innocence was not the only thing to die in the monster’s arms. He explored the depths and made it out alive, though if it was out of his free will or not remained uncertain.

One thing was for certain, no amount of fabrication could alter the outcome. Innocence lost.

The people gathered in circles to talk about the sacrifice over the altar and what would become of those who ordered his would-be execution. How in securing a future for themselves, they also set a ticking watch that counted down to their own fate.

The boy of the fields and moor who would never hurt a fly became a feared presence, stronger than that of the river monster itself. He embodied vengeful anger, displeasure and betrayal.

Parents warn their children to not leave the house before sunrise. To never talk to strangers, or come close to a foreign figure on the beach; for it is almost certainly the river God’s bride. And if the water doesn’t finish them, his husband’s teeth will carry out punishment destined to be enacted on the people for generations.

 

                        

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> come chat with me @cursivecherrypicking on tumblr!!


	2. you’ll take the high road and i’ll take the low road

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Paladin Frederik Andersen has a holy calling, chasing ghosts across the countryside and clutching his beliefs close to his chest. What does he find, at the end of all things?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: face me with my own plot holes and glossed over inconsistencies and I will turn the other cheek (my butt). I’m on tumblr @bespokemanners and I’d like to not only thank god but also jesus for the otter squad
> 
> Title comes from the folk song Loch Lomond, and the version I want y’all to listen to specifically is by Peter Hollens.

> There _ is a legend spoken only in the smallest of circles of the two halves that balance existence meeting only once in a lifetime. One will chase the Other, and the Other will collect power to shape their brief, perfect bond. It is said that in the moment of true balance, something, somewhere, shifts fantastically and alters the timeline forever.  _

_ \-  - - _

 

After all this time living his life haunted by the faces in his dreams, Frederik Andersen considered himself a man of faith. He’d seen too much to believe anything otherwise. 

The village he arrived to was already preparing for the ritual sacrifice, gathered in town to decide one last time that  _ ah, yes, we’re definitely going to send this young man to get eaten by a god, I concur.  _

Freddie had seen too much death in this particular department, nevertheless he continued on to introduce himself. His armor glinted faintly in the setting sun, incapable of hiding who he was anyways. 

“Why are you here, Paladin?” The leader of the village asked, placing his hands over Freddie’s extended ones. 

Freddie met the man’s eyes with shining sincerity. “I am here to guide your sacrifice down their chosen path.”

The council around them made noises of relief, bowing to Freddie and touching their hands to his armor in prayer. It was weird to think of himself as what these people expected of him, but Freddie at least looked the part. 

“You’ve been sent to us. This blessing was awaited.” The leader grasped Freddie’s forearm in a greeting of respect. “Come, you must meet him, share a meal. Tomorrow morning he goes to the deity.” 

\- - -

Mitch was not who Freddie expected him to be. His ready, cocksure grin and his blue-grey eyes set him outside of the norm in this village, seeming to be a bit of sunshine in an otherwise serious establishment. 

“ _ Frederik Andersen,”  _ Mitch mimicked in Freddie’s deep voice. “What a helm. You sound like the kind of paladin that went door to door to enlist people for the Holy Wars.”

Freddie could not say much except “Call me Freddie” and “I actually did do that,” which had Mitch in  _ tears. _

After a good five minutes, two glasses of water, and half of a beer the bartender slipped Mitch, he quit laughing so hard and gripped Freddie’s forearm. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Freddie. It’s not often we find ourselves a handsome man around these parts.” 

When they finally got around to ordering their food, Mitch explained that he’d asked for his last meal to be a regular night here at the tavern, except that all his rowdy fellow townsfolk intended to get him a little drunk. Between introducing Freddie, Mitch hugged and kissed several cheeks passing through for the night, crying with several more people, but laughing together with all of them by the end of it. 

Things like this kept Freddie’s faith strong. These people  _ believed  _ in Mitch, regardless of the actual influence he had. It kept the town alive on the last hours of Mitch’s life. The thought was sobering but altogether enlightening. The bride to the deity was beloved. 

After everything died down, they sat in wait for their meal to arrive. Mitch hid a few more tears that he wiped away on his sleeve. 

“Are you afraid?” Freddie leveled Mitch’s gaze, he brow furrowed in concern. “You must give yourself willingly.” 

Mitch just smiled up at him, red eyed with his dimples pitting his cheeks. “I was born for this. I know what is expected of me, as a bride to the deity.” He bit his lip and looked off into the distance, where the path they would take laid ready for their journey tomorrow. “I’m not afraid. I’m just bad at being patient.” 

Freddie folded his hands into his lap, frowning in thought. “I think I understand. I’ve had to do a lot of things to be who I am now. It’s hard to meet the expectations of a bar set so high.” He thanked the kitchen boy who brought him his food, slipping a gold coin in his hand where the cook wasn’t watching. 

“At least you got the freedom to choose, you know? I was  _ birthed  _ onto an  _ altar _ . They were trying to butter my ass up for the pot  _ early.” _

That did make Freddie laugh, and they both took a moment to eat. Halfway through his pint, Freddie thumbed at the ring of condensation left on the wood of the table. “I don’t know if I did choose it,” he said quietly, concentrating on the line of the grain. “I think I’ve always been who I am, if that makes sense. Even when I was little, you know? It’s hard for me to find the words to explain it. I’ve been following this path for as long as I can remember.” 

Mitch hummed sagely, his mouth full of potatoes. Clearing his throat, he washed out his mouth with his water. “That part I get. Suppose we’re birds of a feather then, aren’t we, Frederik Andersen?”

There was a look in his eye that caused Freddie to question the core of himself, where he hid all of the things he saw and knew to be true about his faith. But, for the rest of the evening until Mitch excused himself to sleep, they chatted about who they were and what their lives had been, as if they were old friends reminding each other how it was. 

\- - -

In Freddie’s dreams, it was always the same two young men beckoning him along his pilgrimage. There was a sad eyed blonde wearing the same princeling circlet his regent parents had sent him to die in, and then the roguish farmboy with hair that rivaled the red of Freddie’s own. Freddie couldn’t remember a time when his dreams weren’t guided by their haunting, wordless voices. 

Tonight, Freddie dreamt of them laughing and chasing each other through the gate at the edge of the forest. The blonde was faster, but let himself be caught so that they could kiss where they knew Freddie was watching. The forest around them seemed to breathe as Freddie followed them down the ragged, overgrown path. The familiarity of the energy behind it shook Freddie to his core, and the men lead him to a place his mind could barely fathom. Moonlight reflected off of the water, the pale limbs that floated just underneath the surface shining eerily until all of the light refracted around a central figure floating upward. There was no final beginning or end to it, only the ever-growing amorphous shape that it took. Freddie’s eyes focused on his two lifelong guides in the background, looking much less alive than they used to. Their eyes were milky, their skin sickly white and dripping wet with the muddy water that swirled up around this huge, horrible mass. The redhead reached out to point at Freddie, saying his name without speaking. 

_ “Come and see,”  _ they said, sobbing at him with rotting lips and chanting another, different name. 

Freddie couldn’t hear anything but muffled, underwater sound of it, and he tried to tell them so, but all they did was begin to scream the name at him over and over and over and over until—

Freddie sat up in bed, gasping for his breath in deep, whooping coughs. The plain, bland walls of the tiny tavern room settled his soul immediately, drawing him back into exhaustion. He’d gotten used to his dreams turning violent at a young age. The feeling of drowning as he watched a sacrifice go so willingly to the end of their existence was something he’d learned to live with. For some reason, even though Freddie was a man of faith, he was shaken afraid. There was something waiting for him on that riverbank. It would be hours before dawn, and he’d not sleep a wink the rest of the night. 

\- - -

Something told Freddie his weapons and armor would be useless where they were going. He left them in his room at the inn, hoping he’d again have the chance to bear the vigil that had protected him for so long. The only thing he left over his clothes was the good luck runed talisman he’d hung around his neck since he was a baby, and a few knives hidden here and there. 

Mitch was waiting for him outside of the inn, casually sitting on the porch in his gossamer sacrifice garb. “You’re up early,” he said, following Freddie straight through the gate. 

“I know where we need to go,” said Freddie, ignoring the look of confusion on Mitch’s face. “Follow me, and keep close. There is more to this place than just beasts and your deity.” 

Mitch hung to the back of Freddie’s shirt, his blue eyes wide as dinner plates. There was silence, briefly, until Mitch touched Freddie’s shoulder to get his attention. “You’ve traveled a long way to be walking me to a river.” 

“My faith guided me to this place,” said Freddie, shrugging. He looked up into the sun, eyes squinting a little. “How can you be so calm about what’s going to happen?”

Stepping over a branch, Mitch hugged Freddie’s arm close to his chest as a snake slithered in front of them. “Didn’t you dedicate your life to this, you know, godliness? It’s the same old story with the God of the River and his eternal bride. They find each other in every lifetime, and upon their meeting, something magnificent will happen. Sometimes it’s a blessing, and sometimes it’s catastrophe. Either way, it’s magic enough for people to live in fear of the consequences.”

Freddie helped Mitch over a fallen tree, setting him onto his feet. “Do you believe you are the Old God’s bride?” He wasn’t sure of Mitch’s real views on the pledge he’d made. 

Mitch laughed, reaching up to touch the serious furrow between Freddie’s eyebrows. “That’s the real question isn’t it? Whether I am, or not? At this point, I can only hope to be so important.” 

They stopped just short of the river; Freddie could hear the water flowing quickly downstream. He turned to look at Mitch, whose expression was somber. “Are you sure you want to do this? We can bail, if you want.” 

“I have to.” Mitch closed his eyes and held a breath before letting it out in a huff. “Thank you for coming with me. I don’t think I would have, if I’d been on my own.” He stood on his tiptoes to kiss Freddie on the cheek, fondly. “You’re a good man, Frederik Andersen.” 

Freddie watched as Mitch walked out onto the top of the water into the middle of the river, standing unflinching over the deepest part of it and waiting for the deity’s arrival. He only looked back to Freddie once with a brilliant, confident smile on his face. When Mitch turned back around, the mass Freddie had seen in his dreams had risen silently, only engulfing Mitch once he recognized what was happening. 

Freddie watched from behind the tree as every bit of Mitch was consumed by the murky darkness. He heard the telltale crackling sounds of Mitch’s bones giving way, saw the blood feed downward and stain the water. It happened the way Freddie had seen it so many times before in his dreams. 

Silently. Without any fuss. 

Mitch fell lifeless and facedown into the water with a resounding splash, only floating for a moment before something from beneath pulled his body into the depths.

Freddie held his ground as he was approached next, staring straight into the darkest area that seemed to have hungrily latched onto his presence. He felt he should be searching for something, as he always had, but that he’d really found it this time. 

“I’ve been waiting for you,” said the writhing mass, voice hoarse with disuse. Scarred, discolored hands reached for Freddie, and he couldn’t help but seek their touch rather than be repulsed. 

Freddie was eager, trusting on his unshakeable faith that he was meant to be exactly where he was. “I’m sorry it took me so long.” 

The forest was silent around them; no wildlife bustled in the background, the water made no sound as it lapped against the compacted earth of the riverbank. 

Freddie heard his name clear as a bell, now. Brown eyes, softer than Freddie’s own peered out from the depths of the darkness. 

_ Auston.  _

There was a flash of a mischievous smile that Freddie had only ever seen in his deepest dreams.

Their lips touched, and as he had in every lifetime before, Freddie remembered the face of the lover he’d chased across eternity. His hands cradled Auston’s hips, the places on his body where they touched smoothing out into flesh and blood. 

Auston sighed, melting forward into Freddie’s arms as if his strings had been cut. “I’d forgotten how you smelled,” he murmured, hugging Freddie’s neck. 

“I’d forgotten everything.” Freddie slid his palms down the bare curve of Auston’s back. “I didn’t know what I was looking for until I got here.” 

“That’s why I’m still here to remind you.” Although there was a waver in Auston’s voice, he could be heard clearly now. “I’ll always be here, so you can always find me.” He touched all over Freddie’s face, as if re-memorizing his features, smiling. 

Freddie’s chest began to feel a little cold. He knew what was happening now, too, and couldn’t help but put his weight on Auston for lack of strength in his legs. He kissed Auston again, as deep and searching as he could manage. “Here, take care of this for me.” Freddie undid the necklace from his throat. “I want you to give it back to me later.” He tied it back behind the nape of Auston’s neck, wincing a little as his mind went fuzzy for a moment. “It’s almost time.”

“I don’t want to,” Auston sobbed, holding Freddie’s face in his hands. “I can’t let you leave me again, I can’t take it.”

Freddie hushed him as he pressed their foreheads together. “It’s okay, precious. This is how it’s meant to be.” There couldn’t be a way to fix any of it, if it had been this long that they’d repeated the cycle. It was difficult for Freddie to even remember the inception, beginning so long ago with two souls that were still lost all these years later. 

Auston shook all over, beginning to glow with the sunlight shining down on him. “No. We were cursed to an existence of this.” He looked up to meet Freddie’s eyes, his desperation clear. “I have to fix it somehow. I’ll fix it so we’re never apart again.” 

“You know what you have to do,” Freddie reminded, gently. “We can’t fix it if I don’t come back.” 

“I’ll find you first, this time,” Auston whispered fiercely. “You won’t have to worry about a thing. Just wait for me, won’t you?” 

Freddie smiled, kissing Auston again. “Of course I will. Find me fast. I love you.” The light had began to dim in his eyes already—just their meeting was causing the drain upon him. 

Auston’s face broke, crumbling his human facade into nothingness. He held Freddie at his full height near the treetops, cradling him in soggy branches and padded refuse. “I love you more than I can explain, and I’m so sorry.” The was nothing human left in his voice, sounding instead reticent of the wordless speaking in the dreams Freddie had. 

“It’s okay,” said Freddie, hugging into one of Auston’s armlike appendages. “I promise it’s gonna be okay. You’re so smart, you’ll find it out and we’ll be together forever, like you said.” He closed his eyes and folded his arms under his chin, as if he were only going to sleep. “You just have to find me, right?” 

Auston’s branches covered him completely, snuffing Freddie’s light out in a way that Auston could feel empathetically. It was then that he felt a second, much larger ripple in the fabric of existence, but cared nothing of it. 

Auston sat and wept, saying his own name over and over and over again until he forgot the real sound of it. He fell asleep, exhausted of energy and lying in wait for the first spark of his lover’s existence...again. 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> yeah, alright, Technically(!) willy and brownie were in this fic too, but I feel that I more used their essence than their actual personalities. only broad scale tags on multi-author chapter fics, we die like men
> 
> let me know how this steaming pile of fresh garbagé suits your fancies, kitties


	3. and the water creeps to my chest

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Be careful what you give to the water.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> major credit to ama for helping me whip this into shape! thank you for giving me the opportunity to remix this <3 !
> 
> > implied drugging  
> > mentions of blood/wounds  
> > sacrificial animals, virginal sacrifice as subject matter  
> > non consensual... drowning? there's a lot going on here  
> > no sex but mitch expects it to happen in a dubcon kind of way (ie; he agrees for the good of the town)

Spring is late. Floods of ice continue down the river, but the circumstances lend themselves to spending more time with Mo under the guise of surveying the damage. They all know the cause, of course, but Mitch finds himself eager to soak up the older man’s company.

His presence is distracting enough that Mitch isn’t paying attention to where he’s stepping and slips on wet rock, slicing his foot on a sharp edge on his way down. Tears spring to his eyes as he cries out in pain, and Mo hurries over to him with a soft curse. 

The pain fades quickly, quicker under the gentle touch of Mo, but Mitch grows squeamish under his intense scrutiny, feels the need to break the silence.

“They’ll be making a sacrifice soon,” Mitch comments as Mo carefully inspects the cut.

Mo smiles sadly. More often than not, he's the one called on to secure the goat, to open a wound to drip into the frigid water as a lure for the monster. It’s what must be done to secure the harvest, but Mo knows it better than most. He’s also the one called to take care of the few remains in the morning; scrub the blood from the rocks so that the village can more easily forget the price of what lurks in the water.

The water stings against his open cut when Mo lowers his ankle into the river to soak off the dirt. Mitch winces, watches the red seep from his skin into the shallows, unable to clot. 

"Give my best to your parents." Mo tells Mitch, helping him to his feet with a hand on his waist, clearly intent on sending him on his way before another accident befalls him.

"They said you've been asking after me." Mitch blurts out before he can turn around, and Mo stills. Asking about courtship is impolite, but Mitch can't stand not knowing for another season longer.

Mo's hand is steady over his hip, pinning him in place just as well as the almost shy glance he levels him with.

"I have." He says simply, carefully, and Mitch fights against the urge to smile.

“They’d like to invite you over for dinner, soon.” Mitch suggests, and Mo smiles in poorly disguised relief.

“I’d like that.” He tells Mitch, and brushes a gentle thumb over his knuckles before he goes.

*

The fix is an easy one, a yearly routine at this point. Mitch has grown up watching the proceedings, studies in the hopes of being able to conduct them himself one day, and for the first time, Mitch is allowed to take over reading the ceremonial texts.

His heart swells at the way the elders speak amongst themselves approvingly, at the way his parents glow with pride watching him address the congregation. 

Once the goat is tied to the dock and left, Mo leads him away, the gathering following behind once the sun sets.

*

In the night, the river floods brine into the fields, salting the earth.

Mo looks anxious, when Mitch next sees him inside the baker’s. His clothes are dirty, shoes dripping and covered with dark mud.

"It didn't work. The doe had just been torn apart, not taken. Nearly bled out, then drowned." Mo says helplessly, looking to Mitch as if for guidance. "Half the field is ruined. I don’t know what to do."

Mitch hasn’t studied what the texts say about this, doesn't know the next course of action. Not once in his lifetime has the offering failed to appease the creature.

"I’m not sure.” Mitch confides, running blunt nails through his hairline in a nervous tic. “It must be requesting something else. Something more. We’ve decided to wait until tomorrow’s meeting to decide."

Mo nods, so easily putting his trust in his hands, and Mitch’s heart skips a beat, reminded of his unfaltering gaze each time Mitch speaks of his studies. The way Mo looks at him is almost reverent, like he’s something worth worshipping, and that’s a dizzying thought-- one that keeps Mitch restless at night, willing time to pass more swiftly.

*

Waiting seems to only aggravate the monster. As if punishment for their indecisiveness, a child nearly dies when her feet are swept out from under her in a usually-calm bend of the river. Mitch spends his morning knocking on doors, warning people away from the river.

Panic sweeps the village as the people search for a sign of what it could want, desperate yet fearful of finding anything. Mitch has a rising sense that he may have a bigger role to play when his parents rush to find him in the square, forcing him back to see the state of their home.

The lazy brook in his backyard has flooded their house, seeping in under the floorboards and pooling on the floor beneath his bed. Swept in by the water, a delicate ring of wedding flowers line the doorway, piled up under the crucifix hanging on the wall. 

According to his father’s reading of the scriptures, the creature may request a virgin's sacrifice. It can take the form of a man and lay claim to a bride.

Mitch’s throat feels tight as he comes to the same conclusion as his parents.

“I-- we need to tell the church. We need the creature’s blessing.”

Though hesitant at first, he grows more confident when his father praises him for his bravery, his selflessness, and it’s with an almost grim sense of duty that he goes to Mo.

“They’re offering me. My chastity.” Mitch tells him, some mixture of nervousness and pride in his chest. He’s valuable, what the village has chosen to sacrifice.

Mo is distraught far beyond what Mitch had felt, and Mitch scrambles to soothe him. He doesn’t trust the danger of the ceremony, shies away from the role he would be expected to play. It’s the first glimpse of doubt Mitch has seen from him, but Mitch is experienced in reassuring the devout, in guiding them back to reason.

By the end of it, Mo is quiet, wringing his hands, but he still nods along to Mitch’s repeated reassurances that it’s for the good of everyone. His own fate and the subsequent ostracization will be a steep price, but their fates all depend on it.

Mitch is determined, unable to be convinced otherwise, but he’s never been able to resist asking after Mo’s intentions. “Would you still want me if I’d been already taken?”

“That wouldn’t change anything.” Mo says hoarsely, and embraces him for a few beats too long before Mitch leaves.

*

The next day is full of preparation.

Senior members of the congregation helps him dress and stain his lips darker. Shrouded in white and with his eyes lined with kohl, he looks beautiful. Like he’s being wed. He’ll never be a bride again, but Mitch has someone who wants him-- someone who might have him after all this is over, and that’s comforting enough to ease his nerves.

In a lull in the arrangements, his mother presses a small bottle of oil into his hand, tears dripping down her cheeks. She’s unable to meet his eyes as she explains what to do with it. Mitch flushes-- wonders what Mo would think about it, then flushes all over again.

“You’ll be his.” She says sadly, voice choked, and Mitch’s stomach twists even after he reminds himself that she’s wrong. He won’t be cast out and completely banished-- he’ll be Mo’s. Maybe one day he’ll be able to return to the church-- stripped of his status, but able to worship in public again without the shame of his sacrifice hanging over his head.

They feed him wine that makes his limbs heavy, sluggish. He doesn’t resist when they take him to the river-- it’s almost all a blur, in the way he can’t easily focus. Mitch comes back into himself while he’s bound, eyes focusing in recognition.

Mo is weaving intricate knots around his wrists, reminiscent of those that he’d used for fishing. Mitch mentions it, words slightly slurred, and Mo’s concentration falters-- he’s knelt down in front of him, securing stones to his ankles. Mo doesn’t respond.

“Th’t’s heavy.” Mitch mumbles, testing the weight.

“You won’t get dragged away. We’ll be able to find you.” Mo finally replies, lines of tension creasing his forehead. He steps away to let Mitch be lowered into the water, secured to the dock. The chill of the water is a shock to his system, helps him throw off the fog that’s clouding his mind.

Mitch waits, watching the cloth around his waist drag in the current as the water levels rise. He squares his shoulders, clenches his jaw. Tries not to focus on the way that his legs have started trembling beneath him-- from the cold or nerves, he isn’t certain.

It grows dark as the sun sinks beneath the horizon.

It’s not coming. It’s not happening. The knot in his stomach loosens, his lips involuntarily curving into a smile. Mitch can’t help the relieved tone from seeping into his voice, despite what it means for the village.

“It’s not coming-- this wasn’t want it wanted.”

The mutterings of those gathered grow louder, uncertain. Mo’s fists are clenched as a cleric speaks to him, expression anguished but ultimately unsurprised. He nods along to something, shakes his head when Mitch’s father tries to pull him aside.

“Untie me.” It’s not a question. There’s a niggling uncertainty, a rising sense of fear in the back of his mind, but Mitch ignores it. Tries to.

The river demands a sacrifice.

Mitch hadn’t considered that it could mean his life.

“Wait. No. No, no, no, _please_.”

The water licks at his chest, slowly but surely creeping higher.

The once-blessed numbness that spread throughout his body has become a dangerous weakness, leaving his movements sluggish and uncoordinated as he yanks at his bound wrists. It’s for nothing, and the crowd gathered has started to turn away, head back to the village.

“Come back for me, please. You have to.” Mitch begs, not even hiding the way he’s looking plainly at Mo. His parents had been the first to leave, unable to stand the sight of their son submerged in the murky water any longer.

“Please, please. Morgan. I’ll die!”

Mo leans down, shuts his eyes against Mitch’s crazed stare.

“I’m sorry.” Mo breathes out softly, barely audible as he pulls out his fishing knife, and Mitch screams, wrenching his shoulder to the side in an attempt to get away.

“No no no _no_ , _please_ \--” He’s begging, tears streaking down his face, but Mo talks over him just the same, unhearing.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” Mo repeats in a mantra, choking on his words.

“It’ll get me, please, _Mo_ \--”

“I have to, I’m sorry.” It sounds more like Mo’s trying to convince himself. His hands are shaking badly as he leans forward despite Mitch’s pleas.

The slice at his chest stings far worse than Mitch had imagined, marked by the man he’d intended on marrying. It’s shallower than those Mo usually made on the goats, and that more than anything causes Mitch to start sobbing as Mo pulls away.

Red stains his robes and is swept away by the current, water levels still rising towards his collar. 

No one looks back.

Mitch cries himself hoarse, wailing and trying to crane his neck for a glimpse of Mo, of anyone. He’ll come back, Mitch knows, he _has to_ , and he’s-- he’s not coming. 

Mitch is going to die, and that’s a realization that hits him when the current reaches his chin, forces him to crane his neck to the sky. It’s fully dark, the moon just barely peeking through the clouds. The sight is almost calming, up until the uneven pull of the water begins to rush over his face and he has to sputter in panic for air.

Primal terror doesn’t lend itself to rationality, so it’s almost a relief when something grabs his ankles to untie the rope, lets the stones sink to the bottom of the river. 

Almost.

He’s pulled under with a powerful jerk, still trapped by his wrists, and he and can’t help but inhale at the sight of glowing eyes through the murky water. It burns, and once it starts, it doesn’t stop-- unbearable pain spreading from his nose to his lungs.

There are hands on him, humanlike hands running up his trembling stomach, over his thighs, and his lips instinctually part, allowing more water to rush into his mouth, his throat. Everything hurts. It’s all too distracting to keep up with as Mitch grows light headed, already limited vision clouding into darkness amidst the push and pull of his limbs. He can’t lift his head.

The thing doesn’t untie his wrists, even as it tears into his sodden garment. He stops breathing.

*

The next time he opens his eyes, nothing hurts. Something hums under his skin, under his fingertips. There’s no longer a rise and fall to his chest, but humanity’s habits hold strong when he’s pushed onto land.

The creature-- his God, he now knows-- watches silently as Mitch heaves up the lungfuls of water until he no longer has the strength to continue, involuntary spasms growing weaker until he slumps to the ground. It no longer has a need for a human form, but remains so for Mitch’s comfort.

The creature-- Auston-- moves to leave, to take Mitch with him, but he shakes his head forcefully. He’s bound by their union, but that goes both ways. It can’t leave without him, and Mitch isn’t budging. His death has brought knowledge along with a growing bitterness in his chest.

“I want them to hurt.” He says coldly, voice raw. There’s a ringing in his ears-- still waterlogged, unable to make out soft noises, but the response of a loud cracking of ice rattles deep in his chest. 

Mitch can’t tell if it’s him or Auston that veers the water’s path into the rocky bank, but it’s his own wrist that guides it up into the town, drowning the remainder of the crops and polluting their wells.

He leaves Mo’s plants untouched, a sign that it was his doing. Their courtship had been common knowledge, the village looking forward to a wedding that will now never come. 

The envy of his good fortune amidst a scarcity of food will rot them inside out.

Both times Auston found him, it was Mo’s fault. Mitch hopes he burns for it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (PS: the ship name is motch. thank you for your time)
> 
> I'd love to hear what you thought!


	4. as i went down to the river to pray

There’s a story, they say, of a boy who lived by the river, and a monster who loved him.

It is not a kind story, but it is a true one.

There was a boy, the son of a minister and his wife. It was a quiet life he lived, in the still of the village saved by God, alongside the river and the mill. He had a brother who protected him, and a girl who was sweet on him, and a future turning soil. Or he would have, if the river itself hadn’t fallen for him.

This boy, you see, had a habit of sitting on the riverbank in the summer, cooling his feet and humming to himself. He’d weave daisy chains for his mother, whittle a wooden bird for his sweetheart, recite his verses for his father. Sometimes he’d fish, mimicking arguments with his brother; many times he’d merely speak to the river’s expanse and the open air. It’s there that the river lost its heart, to the voice of this boy.

The river was old. It had carved its path through this land centuries before, and it was not inclined to change. Once there had been a people who worshipped it, but they were long gone, replaced by this placid sort of people. This boy was different, thought the river, and enjoyed the company.

Of course, summer could not stay summer forever, and a boy could not remain a boy forever. Life and the village called, and the river began to freeze. The boy no longer came to the banks, and the river despaired. It churned under the ice and dragged at the bridge. Summer always came again, so the river waited with bated breath.

But the boy did not come, and the river raged. It flooded its banks and hurled itself at the bridge; it swept away livestock and crops like they were nothing, and screamed when it found not the boy.

The village folk were good, God-fearing people. It hardly occurred to them that the river could be alive and could be demanding a toll on their town, but as the waters continued to foam and the damage began to mount, an inkling started in their minds that perhaps it was alive after all.

The river howled in its loneliness, and left daisies to wash up on the bank where the boy so often sat. A shoe came next, along with a jacket--both remnants from the first life the river had claimed. Here was someone’s bundle of goods, meant to be sold; there, the corpse of a sheep, bound in reeds and drowned. Perhaps the river thought it was giving gifts, proving its worth, but almost surely it thought it was paying a price for the boy.

The village people began to murmur amongst themselves, fearing the river more than they feared God. They began to wonder what they could do to keep it from washing the town away, from destroying more of their livelihood. They whispered to themselves about the boy who sat on the riverbank, and of the gifts the river was now leaving, and wondered--perhaps his death could prevent theirs. They wondered where he had gone, and what he had done to anger the river; they wondered why he had left and made their placid river rage.

But where  _ had  _ the boy gone? He was not dead, and the pastor was still there; the boy had gone to work in the fields and had not had time to sit by the river in quiet solitude. His brother had married, and there was another mouth to feed, another space to carve in their home. The family needed workers, and the boy no longer had time to weave daisy chains or whittle or recite his verses.

It took only one more desperate surge from the river, sweeping away half of the bridge and a half-dozen lives, for the people to come to a decision. Fearful men are not rational men, and the human-like desires of the river terrified them. They could not prove the river demanded the boy's death, but they could not think of any other answer.

A half dozen of the village men, and a half dozen of the village women met by moonlight and discussed their plan in hushed whispers.

They would give the river the boy, and pray it satisfied whatever demon slept under the waters.

It was not murder, they reasoned, but it would be as the death of a fattened animal to feed a family through the winter. The boy could not be thought of as human; they could not afford to think of the little child who had hidden in his mother's skirts, who the elders had cooed ever, who had run messages for his father through the streets. They could not think of him like that, because then they would falter and the river would destroy them all.

They came to his father, and offered a dowry, as they might for a village girl marrying away from home. His father refused it the first night; his son was no daughter, and he would not sell him away for the sake of superstition.

They came to his mother, and offered a life of comfort for her older son, as they might for a respected citizen of the town. His mother refused it the second night; one son could not make up for the loss of another, and she would not sell him away for the sake of superstition.

They came to his brother, and offered riches beyond belief, and golden jewelry for his wife, as they might for a king. His brother refused it the third night; he had but one precious brother, and he could not bear to lose him for any price.

Then, they came to the boy himself, and begged him to save them. He did not refuse the fourth night, but only because they gave him no choice.

Some might say he went willingly, gracefully accepting his fate for the sake of his family and his village, but nothing could be further from the truth. They dragged him, kicking and screaming, until someone thought of the poppy. His sweetheart herself forced back his chin and dripped the oil into his mouth.

They didn’t have much, but a touch was enough to make his limbs loosen and his eyes go glossy. He no longer clawed at them, dragging lines of blood down their arms. He no longer screamed, his throat going hoarse and sore.

They say there must have been magic in that poppy, for so small a dose could not have made him so docile. Perhaps the river had magic of its own, and softened the betrayal for this human it so desired. Or perhaps--the boy realized he had no choice, and his life would end that night, and it was up to him if it ended brutally or sweetly.

His footsteps were quiet as the mob escorted him along, his shoulders steady and firm. He was no weakling (for he worked the soil with his brother) but he seemed almost waifish in the torchlight. The villagers reached to touch the edges of his clothing, as if he were holy, as if the brush of his skin against theirs would bless them.

The village folk led him to the docks, and they held back his father as he howled in desperation for his son’s life. They shielded his mother’s eyes, so she would not have to see her son drowned. They accepted the blows from his brother as he fought his way through the crowd, but they would not let him close enough to save his brother’s life.

They bound the boy wrist and foot, and draped a finely-woven shawl over his shoulders. Someone laid a wreath of daisies on his brow, and another stained his lips red with berry. 

When they stepped away from him, the river rose up and dragged him under, until only a fine mesh of bubbles remained on the surface where he had gone under. The river calmed, and the townspeople turned to the boy’s family with smugness and relief, but only able to watch as his mother tore her clothes in grief and his father screamed himself hoarse at the death of his youngest, beloved son.

If this were a kinder story, that would be the end; if it were a fairer story, the boy would have passed along quietly; but this is not a kind or fair story, and it is not a happy ending, not for the boy.

The river was pleased with its prize, as rivers are wont to be. It fashioned itself a human face and hands, and breathed water into the boy’s lungs as it stole a kiss. If the river were less magic, he would have drowned. Instead, his lungs filled with water, scorching as if they were on fire, and he dissolved into the river’s touch, always to be part of the river, and never forgetting how he was abandoned to its cruel sort of love.

The river did not want its new plaything to die, and forced the boy to the surface, clearing his lungs of liquid. The boy sputtered and gasped, weeping and trying to howl for help, but no sound came from his lips but a desperate rattle. Once he was no longer a brush away from death, the river pulled him under again.

There is no way to describe death to the living, just as there is no way to describe the pain of drowning to those breathing air.

The boy drowned and revived again and again, at the whim of the river, who was pleased with the way the boy's hair floated in the water, and the delicate texture of his blueing skin. It was not a quick death for the boy, as the river worked to separate spirit from mortal body.

A soul is bound tightly to its shell, and it is not an easy task to leave one behind. The river tormented the boy until the last thread connecting the two snapped, and the mortal body washed ashore.

_ Do you love me? _ asked the river.  _ I have given you eternal life. We will never be alone, for we will always have each other _ .

And the boy had no words, for he had not chosen this. He knew not what had happened to his family, and only remembered drowning after drowning after drowning. He wondered how much time had passed, but he drifted off to the sunlight dappling through the river’s surface, and curled his fingers around the ankle of a girl playing in the shallows.

_ You are mine, and I am yours, and there is not even a breath between us _ , said the river.  _ Do you love me? _

And the boy--if he was a boy anymore--drew his footprints on the sand, for he could no longer remember his name, or how long it had been. The winter came, and a woman cried at the water’s edge, but what winter was it, and who did the woman cry for? The boy became distracted by the crystalline ice, and the sluggish chill he could no longer truly feel.

_ You have only just begun to live _ , said the river.  _ Do you not love me _ ?

And the boy could no longer think of a reason why he did not love the river, or indeed, that he had been a boy at all. He still skimmed the imprints of footprints on the banks, and reached for those who waded into the waters.

This is where footsteps on the bank come from, imprints that have no origin and which dissolve in the morning sun. This is where the groan of ice comes from, and how the river can seem to have fingers which pull you under until you can’t escape.

If you listen closely, perhaps you can hear the boy, whispering back to the river, quiet as silk sliding over stone. What he says, no one really knows. This is, after all, not a love story, but the story of a boy and the monster who loved him.


	5. On the shore

 


End file.
